The French Girl(63)
“He’s pretty stupid at times, but even so . . .” Tom grimaces, but then shakes his head. They’re both sneaking wary glances at me. The instinct not to talk about Seb in front of me has become so ingrained over the years that they’re struggling to shake it. Tom shakes his head again. “I’m sure he’s not. He must know it would mean too much to her.”
“Has everybody always known that?” I ask hesitantly. “I don’t think I did back then—did I miss it? I knew she didn’t like me going out with Seb, but I thought she just didn’t like me.”
“She didn’t like you,” Tom says, not without humor, at the same time as Lara says, “She still doesn’t like you.”
A smile curls my lips despite myself. “No, really, guys, don’t beat around the bush on my account.” Tom grins and Lara giggles. “I knew she didn’t like me, but I didn’t think it was me so much as what I represent—or what I don’t represent. I didn’t go to the right school, I didn’t spend my summers in Pony Club and winters in Verbier, I don’t have the right accent.”
“Val d’Isère,” says Tom. I roll my eyes. How is it that we’re now back at this easy ebb and flow? Surely there has to be a reckoning at some point? “But I take your point: she’s a snob. Of course she wouldn’t like you. But especially not since you were dating Seb.”
“You’re right, though; she’s more obvious now,” Lara observes.
I munch on the pizza and let this marinate. The trick is to take in the new without polluting the old, and I don’t think I’ve got the hang of it: it’s too easy to project what I know now on what I remember from then. I remember Seb; I remember the faint disbelief I carried around inside me that Seb—silver-spooned, silver-tongued, golden-hued Seb—that he was with me. Part of me expected all girls to want him. And Seb . . . well, Seb expected it, too; he took it as his right, and any suggestion that he encouraged it was instantly labeled “jealousy.” I decided early on that I would not allow him to brand me with that, but that required a lot of hard work and, in retrospect, willful ignorance. Perhaps it’s no wonder I dismissed Caro’s long-held unrequited love too lightly.
I finish my slice before I break the companionable silence. “Anyway, we’ve strayed from the point. Tom, what do you think happened? You’ve always known more than us.”
He doesn’t dispute it. “I was actually trying not to drag you guys into it.”
“We’re pretty firmly mired in it all now.”
“Speak for yourself,” yawns Lara. “I’m sure I’m off the hook.”
I give her arm a gentle poke. “So much for solidarity. Well, I’m pretty firmly mired in it all, at least.”
He doesn’t dispute that, either.
“You saw something,” Lara prompts.
He nods. “I did. I . . .” A loud buzz interrupts him. He cocks his head and turns toward his door. “Probably a mistake. A drunk or something.” The buzzer sounds again, in three short blasts then a long hold. “A highly obnoxious drunk.” He crosses the kitchen quickly and exits to the hall. We hear him speaking tersely to the intercom by his front door. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” comes an unmistakable voice, unexpectedly loud through the speaker. Lara’s guilt-filled eyes fly to mine, which no doubt display the same. Speak of the devil . . . “Let me up. I’m the glad bearer of tidings—the bearer of glad tidings. Or something . . .”
“Come on up then.” Tom sounds resigned. He reappears in the doorway of the kitchen. “Seb,” he says unnecessarily.
Lara makes a face. “Definitely an obnoxious drunk, then. Though who am I to talk, after all this wine.” She slides down the stool and turns for her bag and coat. “I’m going to have to leave you to it.”
“I’ll come with you.” But I’m still perched on the stool, anchored by the same one ankle.
“Stay,” Tom says quickly. “I’ll get rid of him.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Charming. Whatever happened to blood being thicker than water?”
“Doesn’t apply when the blood is thinned by alcohol. He’ll probably have to slope home to Alina soon anyway.”
Lara is not too sleepy to have missed this exchange: I see her eyes dart back and forth between us as she pulls her coat on, but her face is carefully expressionless. “Call me tomorrow,” she says to me neutrally. “You can fill me in on the outcome of the rest of this Nancy Drew session.”
And so I stay.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Seb is drunk.
Not just a little squiffy, or even moderately tipsy, but unequivocally drunk. The sort of drunk that can only be achieved by dedicated effort—a long, brutally determined session—or by a staggering lack of tolerance. But I’m beginning to suspect that Seb’s tolerance has been well bolstered over the last decade.
“Jesus,” says Tom, as Seb stumbles in through the kitchen door that Lara has just slipped out of, catching hold of the frame to steady himself. He’s in a dark suit, the tail of his tie dangling from his trouser pocket, and there are stains on his white shirt, but it’s his face that really arrests attention. His eyes are glazed and patterned with red veins like cracks; he’s flushed, heavy jowled and loose lipped. The tan that sits on his skin is too insubstantial to hide the damage of his night’s work. “Look at the state of you. Where have you been?”